


I Wanna Drive the Zamboni

by imafriendlydalek



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: College Hockey, Crack, Future Fic, Gen, Inspired by Real Events, Sort Of, how the comic could end?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-18
Updated: 2019-12-18
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:17:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21850750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imafriendlydalek/pseuds/imafriendlydalek
Summary: “ECAC rules say that two working Zambonis are required for every game,” Holster said.“And if there aren’t two, the game is forfeited,” Ransom finished, solemnly.“It’s the last regular season game,” Jack pointed out. “If they win this, they go on to Frozen Four. If not, well, it’s Bitty’s last game ever at Samwell.”“Hell of a way to go out.”***One of the Samwell Zambonis is broken. The gang hustles to find a replacement.
Relationships: Eric "Bitty" Bittle/Jack Zimmermann
Comments: 18
Kudos: 161





	I Wanna Drive the Zamboni

**Author's Note:**

> This apparently happened at a Syracuse Crunch game and I couldn't not turn it into fic. I regret nothing.

“Uhhh, Lardo? I, uh, I need your help.”

Larissa Duan turned her attention from the action on the ice to the voice behind her, struggling to be heard over the noise of the crowds in Faber hockey arena without being overheard by everyone. She narrowed her eyes at the source of the voice - a very anxious-looking Denice Ford.

“What’s up, Ford? Aren’t you supposed to be-”

“I don’t know what to do!” Ford threw her hands up in the air. “It’s just - it seems unnecessary, but it’s in the rulebook!”

That caught the attention of Shitty Knight. “Ford, focus. What’s up?”

Ford wrung her hands around the crumpled paper she was holding. “One of the Zambonis is dead.”

It was as if time froze for just a moment, as all background conversation in the vicinity died. Justin Oluransi and Adam Birkholtz stopped their banter, Jack Zimmermann nearly dropped his camera. Alexei Mashkov held his hand halfway to his mouth, popcorn falling to the floor.

“Why that is bad?” he asked. “Have backup?”

“Samwell has two, yeah,” Ransom started.

“ECAC rules say that two working Zambonis are required for every game,” Holster continued.

“And if there aren’t two, the game is forfeited,” Ransom finished, solemnly.

“It’s the last regular season game,” Jack pointed out. “If they win this, they go on to Frozen Four. If not, well, it’s Bitty’s last game ever at Samwell.”

“Hell of a way to go out,” Shitty said, his thoughts obviously elsewhere.

“Hell of way to go out,” Tater agreed.

“There’s gotta be a way…” Holster mulled. “Surely they can’t let a broken Zamboni dictate whether a team can play.”

“Yeah, I mean, one Zamboni can get the job done just as well, just takes a little longer,” Ransom supplied.

“More time to sell concessions.”

Shitty’s gaze snapped up. “Yes! The rules state there have to be two Zambonis, but they don’t both have to belong to Samwell.”

“Not sure which hat we can pull a Zamboni out of,” Ford said.

“Oh! I do!” Holster shouted at the same time that Ransom declared, “We could borrow one!”

“Not like rental car,” Tater pointed out. “Can’t get from Hertz.”

“Not Hertz, no,” Shitty replied, tapping Holster’s chest as he grinned. “You fucking beauts, are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

“Most definitely,” Holster nodded.

“Think they’d go for it?”

“Probably, yeah. I mean, Rans and I used to work there sometimes, and knowing Bill, he can probably be convinced.”

All three turned their gazes to Jack, who looked thoroughly confused.

“I feel like I’m missing something?”

Shitty sidled up to Jack, slipping an arm around his shoulders to pull him closer conspiratorially. “Remember that ice rink over in Oak Hills, the one with the bowling alley and the arcade?”

“Yeah, you guys got caught sneaking in liquor when we went bowling that one time in sophomore year.”

“Yep, that’s the one.”

Jack pulled back slightly to shoot Shitty a questioning look. “You want to borrow their Zamboni?”

Shitty shrugged. “Best shot we got.”

“How? I mean, it’s halfway across town. How would it get here?”

Ransom had his phone in hand already, busily tapping at the screen. “It’s three point eight miles.”

“Top speed on a Zamboni is 15 miles an hour,” Holster supplied. “Officially,” he added with a wink.

“It’s doable,” Ransom said. “Pushing it, but doable.”

“Okay, but we can’t exactly just waltz in there and take it.”

Shitty raised an eyebrow at him. “If only we had some sort of famous name we could drop, someone whose name pulls some weight, maybe opens up some doors to the frozen hearts of ice rink owners across America...”

“You want me to call them? Don’t you think I should have my dad call?”

Lardo folded her arms across her chest and glared at Jack. “Jack, bro. I love you, man, but you’re an idiot. These days, in this area, the reason Zimmermann is a household name is because of you, bro, not your dad.”

Jack ducked his head, doubt still evident in his expression.

“Pretty sure any ice rink owner in America would wet themselves if Jack Zimmermann called them asking for help,” Ransom pointed out.

Jack peered over his shoulder to the ice, where Whiskey had just gotten control of the puck and was headed toward the net. The opposing team’s defenseman was on him, though, but Bitty was free and Whiskey passed it off the back of his stick and Bitty took off, racing up the ice like only Bitty could. The noise in the arena was practically deafening as Bitty sank the puck into the back of the net. 

Jack was probably the loudest of all.

“Yeah, okay,” he said once the cheering died down a little. “We gotta take the shot.”

Shitty grinned. “Fuck yeah.”

Ransom held his phone out to Jack. “Here’s the number.”

“You got this, brah,” Shitty said, clapping Jack on the back as he moved around him. “I’m gonna go talk to campus security. We’re gonna need a police escort for this.”

Shitty went off in one direction, Jack in the other to find a quiet spot to make the call. 

“You think it can work?” Ford asked the remaining group.

Lardo grimaced slightly. “It’ll be tight. But if anyone can make it work, it’s these idiots.” She clapped Ransom and Holster on the back. “Right now, though, most important thing is to keep this game going the way it is.”

She nodded toward the ice, where Wicks had just gotten slammed into the boards. Samwell was still up by one, at least.

“Yeah, nothing cools your mojo faster than finding out you might have to forfeit anyway,” Ransom pointed out.

“We gotta make sure none of the team finds out,” Holster agreed.

Shitty reappeared a few moments later, trailed by a town police officer. 

“Hey guys, you all remember Officer Caldwell, right?”

Ransom and Holster grinned, Lardo tilted her chin toward the officer with a nod.

“Sup, Officer.” 

They all remember Officer Caldwell, of course, because he was the same police officer who had come out on the call to break up a particularly raucous party at the LAX house. A fight had broken out as people tried to flee the scene, but the hockey team had helped the police corral the suspects.

“Hello, hockey team. I hear you guys are in a predicament.”

“Well, we’ve got ourselves a Zamboni,” Jack announced, appearing behind Lardo. 

“That’s swawesome!” Shitty practically shouted, his hand lifted high in exaltation. “Knew you had it in you, brah.”

Jack shrugged. “Well, it came at a price. Hope you like kids, Tater, cuz you and I are going to be doing a few afternoon coaching sessions in the off-season.”

“Kids are best,” Tater boomed. “Am happy to help!”

“There’s one more thing.” Jack slid his phone back into his pocket and nodded to Ransom and Holster. “One of you guys is gonna have to drive it, though. His Zamboni guy is gone already for the night and he lives way out in Mapleton.”

Ransom and Holster turned to look at each other, eyes wide with excitement. “I WANNA DRIVE THE ZAMBONI!”

“I love this place,” Tater proclaimed around a mouthful of popcorn as they watched the two practically dance down the hallway, singing gleefully, followed by a police officer who looked like this was his favorite day ever.

The next twenty minutes were fraught. Samwell was playing a good game, and the way things were going, they had a pretty good shot at winning. The other team hadn’t managed to score yet, and their starting goalie had had to be switched out with a twisted ankle from a particularly athletic save. 

It was all a matter of time, though. If the Zamboni didn’t get there in time at the end of the period, the game would be forfeited.

Lardo was chewing her nails. Shitty paced back and forth. Tater had given up on his popcorn, too anxious to eat. Jack sat, unmoving, on his hands, his lips moving slightly as he counted breaths quietly to himself. Ford, meanwhile, had gone back to the bench.

They watched the timer wind down, three minutes, two minutes, forty-five seconds, thirty, twenty, ten … The buzzer rang. The players left the ice as the sound system played some song that none of them bothered to process. 

There was a pause. 

Quiet seemed to descend upon the arena as people stopped talking. The lights dimmed. Coach Murray stood, walked toward the door in the boards. Jack gasped.

_Well I went down to my local arena,_ the speakers droned.

A Zamboni drove out onto the ice, painted in familiar Samwell red. The driver waved to the crowd as he started his loop.

_I asked to see the manager man.  
He came from his office and said, "Son can I help you?"  
I looked at him and said, "Yes you can."_

A second Zamboni drove onto the ice, painted in bright blue and orange. Ransom and Holster pumped their fists in the air, singing enthusiastically:

_'Cause I wanna drive the zamboni.  
I wanna drive the zamboni!_

“YESSSSSSS!” Shitty shouted triumphantly. Jack jumped to his feet, then staggered backward as Shitty launched himself at him, arms wrapped around his neck. 

“WHAT A FUCKING DAY!” Shitty declared. 

“What a fucking day,” Jack agreed. 


End file.
